


Cat's Cradle

by auburn



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Covert Ops, Double Agents, Double Cross, Gen, Lies, Out of Date, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-01
Updated: 2004-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9567980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auburn/pseuds/auburn
Summary: A Sark and Sloane vignette.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Posting old fic to AO3.

_Criss-cross and double-cross, twist, knot, switchback, flip, burn, turn, but keep playing the game to win. Or at least survive until tomorrow. Roll with it._

  
"I was...surprised...to see you had allied yourself with the Covenant," Sloane said.   
  
Sark slanted him an ironic glance. He sincerely doubted anything surprised Sloane. He shrugged. "Merely making the best of an awkward situation," he said. He wasn't going to say anymore, not in the back of a van driven by another Covenant hired thug, maybe not even when they were on the plane and he'd run a bug sweep. He turned his eyes back to the road, unconsciously correcting his balance with each sway of the van over the potholed Mexican road.   
  
He'd spent entirely too much time in Mexico lately, though he supposed it compared favorably with his stark CIA cell. After two years, he found himself appreciating real daylight and even the enervating warmth that stilled each midday here. He'd never let it show, but he'd often wondered if he would ever feel warm again, caught in that temperature controlled cage of glass and steel and concrete. The chill had seeped deep into him, like a slow poison, and remained even now when he could stand in the sun again.   
  
"Though, of course, they did extract you from CIA custody," Sloane mused. Bright primate eyes twinkling, telling Sark the man knew exactly what that had cost him. "...For a price, I imagine."   
  
Sloane just couldn't leave it alone. He always had to have the last word, twist the knife a little.   
  
Sark shrugged and ignored him through the rest of the ride to the airport, amusing himself with the memory of Sloane's expression as Bomani brought the machete down. Sometimes this life did have its moments. A shame the big arms dealer hadn't gone through with the amputation, but it would have been a mess and Sloane would have required a doctor.   
  
Sloane was still ruffled when they arrived at the airfield. Sark directed him to the plane's washroom while he checked for recording or transmission devices through out the plane. A word with the pilot ascertained that someone had been present since arrival, securing it against tampering.   
  
Sloane returned from the washroom and helped himself to a bottled water from the galley, Sark noticed, feeling amused. Sloane was such a deceptively small man and he looked almost harmless as he took a seat. Of course, he was about as harmless as a water moccasin. He'd washed up and the blood was gone from his lip and scruffy beard, but there was still a dab of dampness on his collar where he'd tried to remove a smear of it there.   
  
Sark went forward and took the co-pilot's seat while they took off.   
  
"Would it be too forward to ask where you're taking me now?" Sloane asked after the plane leveled off and Sark returned to the cabin.   
  
"L.A." Sark smirked at him. "I believe you know some people there."   
  
Sloane raised his eyebrows. Sark took a seat opposite him.   
  
"As do you, Mr. Sark," Sloane said. "Or should I say, Lazeray?"   
  
Sark inclined his head, acknowledging the point. "I prefer Sark," he said simply.   
  
His relationship with his father had been both complicated and simple. Complicated in that he had been raised and trained to survive in the shadow world the diplomat slash operative had also lived in, in that his loyalty to Irina Derevko for that training had often clashed with any filial feeling, in that there had been so many secrets between them. Simple in that Lazeray and he had barely known each other, despite the blood tie. But he certainly wasn't going to explain any of that to Arvin bloody Sloane.  
  
Sloane sipped his water and smiled. "I think we should consider coming to an agreement, you and I, Sark."   
  
"I think we're in perfect agreement. Neither of us will ever trust the other."   
  
Sloane chuckled warmly.   
  
"But we understand each other, don't we?"   
  
Sark resisted the urge to run his hand over his shorn head. It was a habit, a tell, and one he had been training himself out of. He'd lost so much of his game face, so much of his control, while locked up, because despite the constant surveillance, they had been blind to all but the most obvious. They never saw that a taut tendon, a muscle twitching in a cheek, and an unfocused gaze betrayed his mourning for Allison as surely as Michael Vaughn's histrionics over Sydney. Jack Bristow was the only one who would have noted it, but Bristow was too bound up in his own pain and loss to delicately pick apart Sark's mind and thoughts and give them up to the rest of the Agency. When Bristow disappeared from the interrogations, Sark let himself stop working so hard to hide everything, and now found it difficult to resume his old detached mask.   
  
"What do you propose?"   
  
"I can't imagine you're satisfied with your present position, acting as the Covenant's ... errand boy," Sloane remarked slyly.   
  
"There are compensations," Sark replied. He would never tell Sloane all the ways San'ko had come up with to bind him to the Covenant's command. Not until he'd shed them. There were compensations, in any event, small things he took inordinate pleasure from, post-incarceration. Either he'd lowered his standards or he'd come to a finer appreciation of common things, even cheap wine.   
  
"But they aren't sufficient, not for a man like you, Sark," Sloane said.   
  
Sark said nothing, though he felt like laughing. Sloane was no mind reader, at least.   
  
"You are no more loyal to Bomani and his masters than I am," Sloane concluded. "Why else would you have made it so easy for the CIA and Sydney Bristow to interfere with the Medusa op? When they came to me, wanting my aid to insert them into the Ministry of Science reception, I was astounded they had gathered so much information on the Covenant's intentions so quickly."   
  
"Sydney Bristow is a remarkable agent."   
  
"She is, but you are not that inept, not even after two years out of the game," Sloane stated calmly. "You are as aware of the Echelon monitoring system as I am, and still used several keywords in your communications guaranteed to alert the CIA to the meet with Oransky."   
  
"Careless of me."   
  
"You're not a careless man, Mr. Sark. I think your Covenant masters would be interested if I were to point out the connection between that failure and your performance."   
  
Sark just watched him. He'd learned the value of silence. He would let Sloane talk. Sloane enjoyed his schemes so much, he liked to show off how he'd out-thought everyone else, and sometimes let something interesting slip. Not often, the man had been and remained a professional, but an alert listener could still garner a useful item periodically. He wasn't surprised that Sloane had spotted that the Medusa op had been blown deliberately, even San'ko had, but it hadn't been difficult to pass it off as Oransky's negligence and not his own. Boris had had a reputation. Sloane was clever enough to see through that, though.   
  
"I am no more happy to be compelled to work for the likes of Kazari Bomani or Ushek San'ko than you are," Sloane went on. He was watching Sark, waiting for some reaction, which Sark provided by blinking lazily and allowing himself a small smile. "It endangers my pardon agreement with the DoJ as well as my work with OmniFam and the World Health Organization."   
  
Arvin Sloane, philanthropist. Sark had found that rather hard to accept when he began catching up on the two years he'd lost. There had been several shocking developments, including Jack Bristow's incarceration by the NSC for a year, but Sloane's 'redemption' had been the one that left him wondering at the insanity of the world. Bristow and Irina allied over their daughter was easy to accept, even lovely Sydney's resurrection, but Arvin Sloane suddenly on the side of the angels stretched Sark's sense of the ridiculous to its limits.   
  
Sloane twisted the cap back onto his half empty bottle of water and set it aside so that he could lean forward toward Sark, forearms on his knees, all sincerity and earnestness.   
  
"I believe you and I can work together again, Sark, here from within the Covenant. From my 'advisory' position and with your field ops intel, we can put together what they are really after, while thwarting them."   
  
"I see," he said slowly.   
  
"Of course, you do," Sloane said.   
  
"But why should I want to thwart the Covenant?" Sark asked, raising an eyebrow.   
  
"Your father's death was engineered by them, you know," Sloane said immediately.   
  
"I had drawn that conclusion," he admitted, maintaining his poise.   
  
"Eight hundred million dollars in gold bullion is a remarkable inheritance, one you've lost to them," Sloane coaxed.   
  
"I consider it the necessary exchange for my freedom. It afforded me nothing while I remained in CIA custody." Sark met Sloane's gaze placidly. He was lying. Inside he seethed over the loss; not so much the money as the humiliation of it, along with his continued, forced, association with San'ko and his goons. He wasn't going to make this easy for Sloane, though. He wouldn't have made it easy for Irina, if it had been she recruiting him instead.   
  
He dismissed Irina from his thoughts forcibly. This was no time to indulge in bittersweet nostalgia for that association. He knew she was alive, but she had severed their connection two years before, whether for crossing her over the Tippin matter or for her own obscure reasoning. He no longer owed her anything.   
  
"Come now, Mr. Sark, no one is that blasé, not over that sum of money."   
  
He shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I am not presently in a position to object to the arrangement."   
  
"We can change that, you and I."   
  
"I've always been a bit of a mercenary."   
  
"I believe the money is rightfully yours," Sloane said. "You should have it back." He sat back against the coach, confident he'd persuaded Sark, just as he had Bomani. Sark saw no reason to inform him that, unlike Bomani, he hadn't needed to be turned. Working with Sloane would just be another way of subtly sabotaging the Covenant. "Though I won't inform the CIA of our mutual agreement. What they don't know won't hurt us."   
  
"I suppose you'll want me to delay Bomani long enough for them to arrange something to replace or disable the AI virus you informed us the Yakuza have?" Sark asked in a bored tone.   
  
"Unnecessary," Sloane assured him. "I'm sure they'll assign Sydney—and if she isn't fast enough, it only bolsters both our positions within the Covenant."   
  
Sark allowed himself another smile at the thought of Sydney. Simon Walker's group—along with 'Julia'—had done a very satisfactory job of obtaining the bioweapon in Saragossa. He'd wanted to stroll over and tease her little, when he spotted her at Walker's safehouse, but had restrained himself. He really hadn't cared if the op succeeded or not, merely taken a few precautions, such as moving the delivery date up, to make sure he didn't get caught in any collateral fallout of a failed operation.   
  
Though, apparently, the operation that failed had been the CIA interdiction, since Simon had delivered the weaponizing agent along with that bottle of cheap wine. Cheap or not, Sark had drunk deep, straight from the bottle, enjoying the moment and the thought of the CIA's frustration.   
  
"I shall be watching for her in Osaka, then," Sark said.   
  
Sloane abruptly changed the subject.   
  
"Do you remember Allison Doria?"   
  
Sark struggled, but didn't betray any reaction. He'd long since accepted Allison was dead. He'd never ventured an inquiry during his endless debriefs with the CIA, never mentioned his own personal attachment to the woman who had doubled Francie Calfo, but the sheer lack of questions about her had told him she must be dead. He'd accepted it without bitterness, believing Sydney Bristow was dead along with her. Allison had liked to take chances and it had finally burnt her. He missed her, but he'd missed many, many things for the last two years, and he was over it.   
  
"Your asset," he said.   
  
"Perhaps it will surprise you to learn that she is presently in the employ of the Covenant, as well," Sloane said.   
  
"Yes, that surprises me," Sark said. "Since I must wonder at how you know this," he added with narrowed eyes.   
  
"I know it because Allison remains my asset," Sloane gloated.   
  
"So she's doubling again."   
  
"As are you and I, Mr. Sark," Sloane reminded him. "But do try to act surprised when the Covenant brings you together. She's informed them of your previous involvement and they are bound to try to use that."   
  
Sark just looked at Sloane. He'd made one mistake, prompted by his feelings for Allison. Two years later he knew much better than to repeat it.   
  
"I'll bear that in mind."   
  
"It would be best if she didn't learn of our little agreement," Sloane said. "Allison is still somewhat bitter over her situation."   
  
Sark sighed. What, did Sloane think he'd trust Allison just because they'd slept together? He was glad she was alive, but whether she was working for the Covenant or Sloane or both, she was no friend of his. They might fall into bed together again, but the world had changed and he wasn't fool enough to pretend to himself that it hadn't.   
  
The only thing that hadn't changed was that the only one he could depend on was himself.   
  
"It won't be a problem."   
  
"Even if it's a choice between Allison and our agreement?" Sloane asked.   
  
"As I said, it won't be a problem."   
  
"Good."   
  
Sark got up and went to the galley to make himself a cup of coffee. He felt Sloane's eyes on him every step of the way.  
  
  


-fin


End file.
